


All these little things in life

by Million_Moments



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Shippy Gen, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Million_Moments/pseuds/Million_Moments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of a long, largely boring and bloody hot Saint Marie day, Richard has to make a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All these little things in life

**Author's Note:**

> My creative writing textbook suggested an exercise where you write about the minutia of your character’s day. This fic jumped into my head, nearly fully formed, though it doesn’t wholly meet the exercise requirements. The title comes from a 3 Doors Down song. This fic refers to a fact revealed in the DiP novel “A Meditation on Murder”, namely that Richard grew up in rural Leicestershire.

Richard wakes with a feeling of dread. The knowledge that he is not alone, there is somebody watching him, somebody who is not welcome. He opens his eyes, heart beating rapidly, there is nobody in front of him. Nobody except Harry, staring at him calmly, but Richard is used to the little lizard – that is not what is disturbing him. He quickly sits up, looking around him, glancing left to right. His brain catches up with what he has seen, and more steadily he turns his eyes to the pillow next to him. That blasted cockerel is standing on it, blinking slowly at him. Richard lets out a long breath, and gets out of bed. He doesn’t bother to chase the cockerel away, he is resigned, it has never worked before, why would it now?

He looks at the sun, and knows his alarm would have gone off soon. Then his eyes narrow, as he assesses its position in the sky. Richard walks forward, sure the sun is way further above the horizon than it should be. He steps out on to the porch, already the day is heating up, and now he is sure it is later than it should be. He turns to look at his bedside clock and jumps out of his skin as a voice says, “Oh good, you’re awake!”

He reels around. Camille is lounging on one of the chairs on his deck, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. She has picked up the book he had been reading the night before, and seems to be making good progress. “What time is it?” He asks, squinting towards his clock.

“Quarter to nine,” she answers, as if this is fine.

“Oh just perfect!” He cries. “I have an appointment with the Commissioner at 9. Why the hell didn’t you wake me? Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

“I turned it off,” she tells him. “It was going off when I arrived, but you were sleeping through it. Knowing you, you probably barely slept the last two days whilst we were on the case. You clearly needed the rest.” All this was said with a tone familiar to Richard, one often used by his mother, one that said, quite simply, that Camille thought she knew best. It infuriates him. Even though she is right about the lack of sleep.

“What am I supposed to say to the Commissioner,” he says, waving his arms about.

“Relax,” she says. “I have rearranged your meeting, it is now four. Said we had an urgent interrogation. Sent the boys a text to tell them to hold the fort. It won’t kill us to be an hour late.”

 “You lied?” He asks, wide eyed. She simply nods, and he wonders how she does it so easily. And how she can be so confident he won’t drop her in it. Which he won’t. “Well, maybe I didn’t want to end my day with a meeting with the Commissioner,” he tells her, still annoyed.

“Can’t be worse than _starting_ your day with one,” she shoots back.

“And you shouldn’t have just…just walked in!” Richard continues to complain. He is on a roll now after all. “What if I had been…” he struggles to think of something. “What if I had been naked?”

Camille snorts, “Please, you are so prudish probably the only time you are naked in that place is the 5 minutes a day you are in the shower.” Richard is going to argue back, but realises if he denies it, she was simply ask for details. And besides, she is right.

“Now sit down,” she instructs, reaching down beside her and putting a paper bag on the table. A rather delicious smell wafts it way towards Richard. She rises and says, “I brought you breakfast, feel free to start whilst I get you some tea.”

“What is it?” He asks before she leaves, pointing at the bag.

“A bacon cob,” Camille says, before giggling. Camille has been using bits and pieces of East Midland dialect all week, ever since she was surprised when Richard did not take offense at being called ‘mi duck’ by a visiting tourist from Loughborough. Richard is clueless as to where she is looking the information up, or why she finds the word ‘cob’ so funny.

He opens the bag. And sighs. “This is _not_ a bacon cob,” he calls into the house, where she is clattering around making the tea. Another giggle follows his use of the word cob. “This is a bacon baguette.” Why on Saint Marie they cannot simply put bacon in a roll, or even two slices of white bread, he will never understand. At least Camille has remembered the ketchup.

“Just eat it!” She shouts back. Knowing he will get no peace, Richard sits and does as instructed. He is itching to get showered, and get dressed, and get to work. To get back to his routine. Why must Camille interfere with his routine?

She returns with tea, two cups, clearly intending to join him. Before she sits down, her eyes rove up and down his body. Richard knows what is coming, feels a slight blush forming already, it is another favourite topic of hers, a source of incessant teasing. “My, my,” she begins. “New pyjamas! But what happened to the stripes? I like the stripes, they were sexy!”

Richard doubts that very much. She is simply trying to make him blush further. And too his extreme annoyance, it works. “I got a new pair,” he mumbles.

“Well the colour suits you,” she says, and Richard almost believes she is being sincere.

He reaches for his tea. Suddenly Harry dashes up the table leg, across the table, and sticks his tongue in it. Camille laughs openly, Richard sighs and chucks the contents of the cup over the balustrade. “I should really evict you,” he tells the lizard.

 

* * *

 

 

Richard stands in the door of the station, Camille hovering just behind him, and observes the rest of his team hard at work. Dwayne has hung a small plastic bucket from the ceiling fan, the kind that children use to make sand castles, and turned it on. Officer Myers is being watched by an increasingly smug Fidel as he attempts to throw one of his many juggling balls into the moving target of the bucket. Richard watches three attempts: one hits the blade of the fan; one goes massively wide; the last simply hits the side of the bucket, setting it rocking back and forth.

“Pay up,” he hears Fidel instruct Dwayne.

“But it isn’t fair, man!” Dwayne protests. “It can’t be done!” He turns to remonstrate, and that is when he sees Richard. “Er, morning Chief?” Fidel whips around and doesn’t manage to keep the alarm off of his face.

Richard stares between them, and the still spinning fan-bucket, for a full minute. Awkwardly, Dwayne shuffles over and turns the fan off. Without saying a word, Richard marches over, turns the fan back on, grabs a juggling ball, takes aim, and gets it in first go. All three let out a cheer at his success, which ceases the instant he turns his gaze on them. For he is very much not amused.

“I think you’ll find it _is_ possible Dwayne,” he says, tone firm. “But entirely inappropriate to be attempting in _work hours_.” He looks between Dwayne and Fidel, they both respond with muttered acknowledgments and apologises. Richard only believes Fidel when they both say it won’t happen again. “Right, if it is so quiet you two have time for,” he wavers whist he tries to think of a way to describe their activities. “Er, fan-bucket challenge-“

“That’s a good name for it!” Dwayne pipes up. Richard glares. It isn’t a good name, and flattery will get Dwayne nowhere.

“If you have enough time for _games_ ,” he continues. “You have enough time to sort out the lost property.” He nods towards a cupboard in the corner that is, these days, so crammed full it barely shuts. Curious, Richard had looked at the inventory, and found the thing had been last cleared out in 2001. That needed resolving. “Get out all the old paperwork, and identify anything more than two years old. Throw away the junk, keep anything that is worth something – I have a plan for it.”

The two officers share a look of resignation, but neither dare question the order. Richard turns the ceiling fan off, dragging a chair over to retrieve the bucket from it. “You never know,” he says as he unhooks it. “Maybe they’ll be an actual crime later for you to investigate.” He moves to switch the fan back on. Nothing happens. Richard flicks the switch up and down several times. The fan does not come back to life. He rests his forehead against the wall, knowing it will take _days_ before an engineer comes, and asks, “How hot is it supposed to be today?”

Camille is the one who answers, “About 40 degrees, Sir.” She winces in sympathy.

“Oh, just perfect!”

 

* * *

 

 

Richard doesn’t understand where all this blasted paperwork, that needs his signature, has come from. His third cheap biro dries up, and he throws it across the room in frustration, completely missing the bin and probably causing the others to question how he had ever managed that shot into the bucket earlier. “Why don’t you take your tie off?” Camille suggests, guessing his grumpiness could only possibly stem from the heat in the office. He abandoned the jacket an hour earlier. It is getting hotter, and no crimes reported, so he is stuck in here.

“Because!” he spits back. He decides to check on the progress of Dwayne and Fidel, he notes Dwayne flick through an old, possibly antique, book, and start to lob it towards the bin. “STOP!” Richard shouts. The force goes out of Dwayne’s toss but it still tumbles from his fingers and lands, open, on the floor.

Richard hurries over and picks it up, examining it closely. “You were going to throw this away?” he asks, incredulous.

“It’s so old!” Dwayne says. “And been in there ages as well – over ten years.”

“This is a first additional Dorothy L. Sayers!” Richard tells the room, excited. “ _Have his Carcase_.”

The room, apparently, has no idea what he is going on about. “Dorothy L. Sayers? The Peter Wimsey books? One of the golden age authors of detective fiction?” Still blank looks. He just sighs.

“So it is worth something,” Fidel guesses correctly.

“Yes,” Richard says patiently, places it amongst the other items to be kept. He hands linger on it a moment, fingers stroking the leather binding. “It is worth something.” Unable to resist any longer, he flips it open, admires the type face, and then lifts it to his face and breathes in deeply. That fantastic, unique smell of antique book hits his senses. When he shuts it and looks at the rest of the team, they all wear equally bemused looks.

“So you like her books?” Camille asks, but doesn’t wait for his answer. “Why don’t you just have it? Nobody is coming back for it!”

Richard considers it, but only briefly. “No,” he says with a sigh. “It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“What _are_ we doing with the items that are worth something?” Fidel now asks.

“Ah!” Richard says, clapping his hands together. “Good question! A tombola.”

“A what?” Camille asks.

“A tombola,” Richard repeats. “Is that not a universal thing?” Shakes of the head. “You assign a number to each prize, and then put them in a big, like, thing that turns around. People pay to pick a number. Something not too expensive…three, four pounds in this case. It’ll be a bit of lottery, they might get a…” he rummaged through the pile, pulling out a few items. “An umbrella, or some sunglasses…or they might get a first edition Dorothy L. Sayers.”

Richard is proud of his idea, and disappointed that the others don’t seem enthused. Hope hits when Dwayne seems to have some revelation, “Brilliant idea! We could raise loads of that!” He cries. “And use it on a team night out!”

“No, Dwayne,” he says, one hand coming to his forehead. A massive headache was starting to form there. “No the money will be going to charity.” Camille beams at him, at least she still thinks it is a good idea. “Now, where could I get some raffle tickets to label up the items?”

All three look at each other, clueless. “I’ve never seen them, Sir,” Fidel says, and Camille and Dwayne also both shake their heads. “You could just write them out by hand?” Fidel suggests, pulling a pad of paper from his desk. 

Richard looks at the dead biros in the bin. “Oh, just perfect,” he says.

 

* * *

 

 

He is ignoring the pain in his head, and the pain in his hand and wrist. Richard has been paranoid for a while he is developing repetitive strain injury in his wrist. Camille appears and places painkillers and a glass of water in front of him. He takes them without thanks, he could have fetched his own, and how did she even know he has a headache? He doesn’t like the fact he may be appearing weak to them. He swears it must be 45 degrees in here now. He finishes the last number with a satisfied little flourish.

He reaches for the tape holder on his desk, but it is not there. He looks around but can’t see it. “Sellotape?” He asks. Everyone looks at the tops of their desks, where obviously it wasn’t, or he would have spotted it. “Where is it? And the holder! It must be somewhere. We need to stick the numbers to the prizes.”

Within five minutes of hunting about, it is evident the sellotape is gone. “Fine,” says Richard. “Fine, fine fine. I am going to go but some.” He grabs his jacket, pulls it on. Still, no crimes have been reported, nobody has anything to do. He tries desperately to think of some sort of instruction to give them on the way out. “We’ll review some cold cases,” Camille suggests, and he nods.

He is about to head out of the door when Dwayne shouts after him, “Smith’s is shut!” he is referring to the nearby stationers/bookshop. “He is on holiday.”

“Fine,” says Richard. “I’ll go to the grocer.”

“They shut early on a Wednesday, Sir,” Fidel reminds him. “Like nearly every shop in Honore,” he adds as he remembers.

“The shops in Port Charlotte will be open,” Camille suggests. “They have their half day on a Thursday.”

“That is on the other side of the island!” Richard complains. “And there are road works. Not that I ever see them doing any work!”

“Ah, just take the inner road,” Dwayne suggests, referring to a gravel road that used to be the main one before the British had arrived and built proper ones. At least, that is what Richard likes to think. It is a horrendous little road that hasn’t been maintained since pirates ruled Saint Marie. “And we have a whole bunch of files that need transporting to the station there.” He reaches under his desk, and Richard recognises files he had told Dwayne to send over a fortnight ago. “I was going to go myself, but since you are heading that way, well that would be more efficient. Here, I’ll carry them down to the Defender for you.” Dwayne disappears out of the door.

“Oh just perfect,” Richard says.

“Do you want me to go with you? To drive?” Camille offers.

“I am quite capable of handling the vehicle, Camille!”

 

* * *

 

 

The Defender comes to a stop. Richard is surprised, because he has not instructed the Defender to stop. He is…well, he is in the middle of the island. Where nobody really lives, because it is mostly jungle. And this one, damn, gravel road. His bum is numb from all of the bumping, and he is glad to climb out and stretch his legs, even though it has only been a comparatively short drive so far. He walks around and opens the bonnet. Well, he tries to open the bonnet, and then he remembers that there is a little latch or something somewhere in the car. He just can’t remember where. He also knows he probably won’t be able to identify what is wrong with it anyway.

He gets on the radio, and he doesn’t bother with protocol this once, just shouts down the phone, “WHY HAS THE CAR STOPPED?”

There is a moment of silence. Then a voice, barely suppressing a laugh, comes on the line and says “Er, Ambulance Station one to Police Vehicle one, we don’t know why your car as stopped. Over.”

A glance Richard doesn’t need to make confirms he does have the radio tuned to the paramedics. He closes his eyes briefly. He did not even identify himself, but they knew it was him, clearly his irate tones are recognisable. “Police Vehicle one to Ambulance Station one. Apologies. Wrong channel. Over and out.”

He quickly tunes it to the right channel, before they can respond, “Honore Station this is Car one. Over.” He isn’t taking risks this time.

“Go ahead, Car one. Over.” It is Dwayne.

“Why isn’t the car going? Over.”

“Why isn’t the car going over what?”

Richard takes a moment to bang his head against the window a few times. “ _No_ , Dwayne, the vehicle has ceased moving. It just came to a stop. Any ideas? Over.”

“Have you checked the fuel?” Then, just as Richard is about to reply, he casually adds, “Over.”

“Of course! It says it has a quarter of a tank!”

“That means it’s empty. Over.” Richard swears. Then he swears again, kicks the tyre, and swears at how much that hurt his foot. How did he forget that?

“Richard?” Camille voice came over the radio. “Richard, I put a jerrycan in the back. I showed you how to refill it manually, do you remember? There is that knack to it.”

He thinks for a moment. It had been a hot day, and he had been convinced he would never actually have to do it and Camille was just making him watch because she liked it when she knew something he didn’t it. So he hadn’t paid that much attention to the process itself. Because he doesn’t respond, he assumes, she comes back on the line, “Are you doing it? I can talk you through it?”

“No, I think I can remember, I’ll get back to you. Over.”

Richard leans back against the Defender. At least, with all the shrubbery, it is a little cooler here. He thinks he can hear a Saint Marie woodpecker somewhere out there. He swats at a mosquito, then closes his eyes. Richard tries to conjure up a vision of that day. Camille had been wearing some of her more formal attire: the pencil skirt, a tucked in blouse. He had thought it odd that she would choose to top up the fuel in the jeep wearing it. He also remembers exactly where his eyes landed when she bent over to pick up the jerry can, and since there is nobody else here, he smiles at that memory. He remembers how she somehow moved gracefully, even when carrying 20 litres of fuel. She always moves gracefully, it is one of his favourite things about her. He remembers her asking if he was paying attention, and she points out switch to release the fuel cap.

He remembers how to refill the car manually.

 

* * *

 

 

He gets to Port Charlotte, gets the tape, gets more fuel and even gets a half way decent cup of tea at the Port Charlotte station, where a young female Constable from Nottingham has started a few weeks earlier, news that somehow has never reached him. And the mysterious source of all of Camille’s East Midland’s dialect.

He spends an hour and twenty minutes driving at three miles an hour behind a herd of goats, whilst mentally trying to remember if the collective noun for a group of goats _is_ a herd – or is it something else? Flock instead? Would a nursery of goats be more appropriate, because of the phrase nanny goat? But males were called Billy goats – so maybe you could call them a William of goats. Some of the younger ones start gambling and Richard, for a moment, smiles. And then remembers how much goats smell and how they eat everything. And how they are not cute, despite what Camille tells him. Everyone on this island _loves_ goats.

He wonders whatever happened to Richard the goat. In Camille’s opinion, probably the cutest of the Richard’s she knows. 

 

* * *

 

 

At the bottom on the stairs there is a poster, making liberal use of WordArt, declaring that the Royal Saint Marie Police Force were having a lucky dip (he supposes that is better than tombola, as is had not yet figured out what to use as the actual tombola) in aid of charity, at £3 a dip. A few people are curiously making their way up the stairs. What Richard is curious about, is the fact the poster is _taped_ on to the stairs.

He bounds up the stairs, his precious purchase gripped in one hand, and walks in the station where Camille gives him a warm smile of greeting and declares, “We found the tape!”

“Yes, just perfect,” Richard tells her. “So glad I went to the other side of the island in a car with a broken fuel gauge and got stuck behind goats for _an hour and twenty minutes_ for absolutely no good reason at all.” Camille casts her eyes down. Usually his sarcastic comments roll off her. “Though I suppose I got to drop off the files,” he concedes. “And met Constable Wollaton, who makes a lovely cup of tea.”

“Yes,” Camille says with a grin. “She is a lovely duck.”

Richard just shakes his head. He watches as Fidel passes over a prize to an elderly lady – a sledgehammer of all things. Richard is thinking she may well reject it, ask for another go, but instead she is delighted and drags it off. Richard hopes she isn’t planning to knock off her husband with it. He has investigated that exact case before…

“It’s proving quite popular, Sir,” Fidel tells him as he returns to his desk. “And we’ve all had a go as well! I won a magic 8 ball!” He points to his prize proudly.

“Oh?” Richard turns to Dwayne. With a sigh, he leans to the side, slides upon his draw, and pulls out a bright pink child’s pair of sunglasses. “Camille wouldn’t let me have another go,” he grumbles.

“That would be against the rules,” she says, with a smile, and Richard gives a nod of approval. His eyes are roving over the pile, trying to spot if a certain item may have already been taken. “What did you win,” he asks Camille distractedly.

“Oh,” she says, rising up and picking up something from her desk carelessly. Then she meanders across the room, and Richard is so distracted by her legs he doesn’t notice what she is holding at first. “This.” She lays it on the desk in front of him.

It is the first edition _Have his Carcase_. Of course it is. “Oh,” he says. “How lovely. I hope you enjoy it.” He resists the urge to pick it up and smell it again, since it would soon be out of his grasp forever. He has seen the way Camille looks after her books. It would probably disappear into a pile somewhere.

“Actually,” she says. “I don’t really like reading crime novels. Not after solving them all day. Don’t see the appeal,” she says with a small shrug.

Richard bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself crying out in despair. After a calming breath, he says, “Perhaps you can sell it. I’m not sure how much it is worth but certainly a fair amount.”

“I suppose I could!” Camille says thoughtfully. “I mean I _was_ just going to give it to you…”

“You can still do that!” Richard says quickly, before he can stop himself. He is embarrassed. “Er, I mean, it is up to you what you do with it…of course. Your prize.”

Without another word, she simply slides it across the desk, pushes herself lightly off, and goes back to hers. He just stares at it for a few moments, then swallows hard and picks it up, placing it inside his briefcase. “Thank you,” he eventually remembers to say.

“That’s ok,” Camille says, as if it is nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Time ticks by. Richard makes notes on photocopies of cold case files, and fantasises about being cold himself. Dwayne and Fidel argue in French about the legality of gambling small amounts on card games on Saint Marie, not realising just how much French Richard has picked up. In fact, until this moment, Richard has not realised just how much French he has picked up. Camille is leaning back in her chair, not even pretending to work, just watching the pair of them with affection.  

He glances at the clock. It is time for him to leave for his appointment with the Commissioner.

“Do you know what it is about?” Camille asks casually when she notices him gathering his things.

“No, he didn’t specify, Hope it doesn’t go on too long.”

“Want to read your book?” She guesses.

“Yes,” he admits, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Richard finds the Commissioner’s office a little intimidating. It reminds him of some of the studies he had supervisions in at Cambridge – all dark wood and a massive desk, but missing the fireplace of course. Accolades and certificates and other things he never looks too closely at are covering the walls. There is a picture of the Commissioner, at a lower rank, shaking hands with a former US President. Another one of him with Prince Charles. And is that David Bowie?

“So, Inspector, how are you today?” The Commissioner lowers himself into his chair. It groans in protest.

“Fine, Sir,” he replies. Then remembering his manners, adds, “And yourself?”

“Marvellous. Wonderful idea about the lucky dip, by the way, heard from my wife, the money will go to a local charity I assume?”

“Yes Sir,” Richard confirms. “The animal shelter.”

He claps his hands, “Excellent. They still have that goat named after you, you know!”

“No, Sir, I didn’t.”

“Oh well you must visit him,” he says matter of fact. “Now, down to why I brought you here today. As you know, you are technically on loan from The Met. It is time to review your current placement and I, for one, would like to keep you here on Saint Marie…”

Of course you do, Richard mentally scoffs, you tricked me into staying here in the first place! He half listens to the Commissioner as he talks about wages, and pay, and current responsibilities.

His mind drifts and he thinks about his life here on Saint Marie instead, about the day he has had. He thinks about the lizard that won’t leave him alone. The lizard he occasionally confides in. He thinks about his team, inventing games with plastic buckets to pass the time, but embracing his ideas even when they think they are quirky and respecting his orders, for the most part. He thinks about the lack of decent tea, but how Catherine will always make him a cup without question, even when it is 40 degrees. He thinks of Camille. He thinks of how often he thinks of Camille. Of her teasing him, challenging him, always digging to know more about him. Of her bringing him breakfast, of how he actually _prefers_ bacon in a baguette. He thinks if he stays, he’d be surrounding by people he likes. And whom seem to like having him around. If he stays, he might let Camille know more about him. If he stays, he might prove he can be naked for more than 5 minutes in his own house.

It is that thought that jolts him back to reality, with the Commissioner sitting in front of him. “So,” the Commissioner says, having apparently finished with all the details. “What do you think of the offer, Inspector?”

Richard surprises himself a little by replying instantly, “Yes Sir, I would be happy to stay here permanently.”

If Richard is surprised, it is nothing compared to the Commissioner. “Permanently?” He repeats, a single eyebrow raised. “I offered you a year extension.”

“Oh!” Richards’s eyes go to the bin in the corner, unable to meet the Commissioner’s in his humiliation. _Of course_ they don’t want him permanently. A year is probably all they need to identify somebody more suitable, perhaps train up Camille, she will be a far superior leader than him. “Of course, yes, well a year is acceptable as well,” he mumbles.

“Oh no,” the Commissioner says. He hears the chair creek and glances up to see his boss leaning back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, for all the world looking like the cat that got the cream. “You said _permanently_. And now I won’t accept anything else.” He rises from his chair and, being the good subordinate, Richard does the same. A hand is offered across the desk, “Welcome to the Royal Saint Marie Police Force, Inspector. Permanently.” Richard accepts the firm grip. He waits for all the voices in his head to tell him he is crazy for agreeing to this, but they do not come.

Not knowing what else to do, what else to say, Richard stands there and waits to be dismissed. “We will have to celebrate, of course,” the Commissioner says now. Richard winces, he cannot help himself. “Oh no, don’t worry, just a small affair, this Saturday perhaps. At Catherine’s. The whole team.” Richard begins to relax. “And the mayor, his wife, and the rest of Honore city council. Plus the head of the fire service and select firefighters, whichever of the paramedic crews aren’t on duty. Maurice, the head of the animal shelter, the PTA of the local high school. And perhaps my nephew’s band could supply the music. Oh and we _must_ invite the local investors group. Catherine is very good at arranging this sort of thing last minute, a God send that woman. She can do seafood platters. Now, how does that sound?”

Richard forces a smile on to his face and tries to keep the sarcasm out of his tone, “Oh, just perfect.”

The twinkle in the Commissioner’s eye tells him he was not wholly successful.

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone grins at him when he walks back to the station. He simply stops in the middle of the room and waits. They all look at him expectantly. “Got anything to tell us, Chief?” Dwayne prompts.

“No,” Richard says, deciding to be obstinate. He is the recipient of three eye rolls. Clearly the Commissioner has been on the phone, probably to invite them to the rapidly growing party on Saturday. “Have you got anything to tell me?”

“We raised £300 from the lucky dip!” Fidel says proudly.

“Excellent,” says Richard. He settles down behind his desk. Still they all look at him, still he volunteers nothing.

Eventually Camille stands, walks over and perches on the edge of his desk. She leans forward in a conspiratorial way and says, “I _knew_ you’d stay!”

“You knew what the meeting was about?” Richard asks, surprised.

“I suspected,” she says, with a gesture of her hand. “The Commissioner _does_ actually consult us sometimes.” Richard looks over to Dwayne and Fidel who nod in confirmation. They must have all said they wanted him to stay. Richard is touched. Which is a difficult concept for him to deal with, because he is English. “Though I didn’t guess you’d say you wanted to stay _forever_!”

“Knew you liked us really, Chief!” Dwayne jokes.

“I…well…um…yes, you are…fantastic colleagues,” he offers. Before diving into a desk draw to find something, anything to do.

“We are going for drinks tonight,” Camille instructs.

“I…”

“No arguments!” She interrupts him, poking him in the chest gently. “No excuses! Like I said, I _knew_ you would say yes. I instructed _Maman_ to make roast beef and that pudding that isn’t sweet. Plus the pudding that is sweet but made of savoury stuff.” Richard is amused by her description of rice pudding. “It has been in the slow cooker for _hours_. It’ll just be us, and we’ll have a few beers, how does that sound?”

Richard leans back in his chair. “Oh,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. “Just perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have written so many DiP I am genuinely paranoid I will start repeating myself soon…And in case you didn’t guess, Camille just donated £3 and never put the ticket for the book in the lucky dip, of course. She wouldn’t risk Richard missing out on it.


End file.
